


Dum Spiro Spero

by brevitas



Series: Leader of the Muses [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Greek Gods AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:30:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire comes to a meeting and Enjolras barely gives him a glance.</p><p>Or, in which Grantaire hates himself and wishes Apollo's fire would consume him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dum Spiro Spero

The meeting is due to begin in five minutes and Jehan has yet to arrive.

Normally Enjolras would not take notice of this but Courfeyrac is sitting in the corner smiling and he looks almost as smug as a housecat with the pet bird clamped in his jaws. Enjolras frowns a bit at him and is going to ask if he knows where Persephone is when Combeferre taps him on the arm and draws his attention.

Years ago Combeferre was known only as Athena, praised in temples for her wisdom and cleverness, but all the gods and goddesses had taken mortal names and new bodies when their believers started doubting and it was difficult to remember his archaic name now, when he had a humming laptop balanced in one hand and was holding a coffee cup with the other.

He and Enjolras settle at their typical places at the head of the table, Courfeyrac to his left. He's taken some coffee too and is stirring an absurd amount of sugar into it, clanging the spoon against the sides. Bahorel is talking to him about the gang war he watched today, arms folded across his chest and apparently ignorant to the fact that he still has some blood on a sleeve.

Apart from Jehan they're all present, and it is something Enjolras can ignore for only so long; he pauses Combeferre with a slight frown and turns to his other lieutenant, engrossed in Ares' story.

"Courfeyrac," he says calmly and immediately everybody looks at him--Apollo does not have to strain to be eye-catching, and where many of his brothers can scare mortals these days only by projecting their voices to the height of gods' he speaks in a murmur and nobody can ignore him. Courfeyrac shrinks in his seat and folds his arms over his chest and really, he couldn't possibly look more guilty.

"Where's Jehan?" He asks and Courfeyrac glances nervously at the door, then says hesitantly, "Well, I _think_ he's on his way--" and is thankfully spared from having to lie when the soft susurrus of approaching voices makes everybody else look that way too. Eros mumbles something that might be, "Oh thank god," and then the door is opening and it's not Jehan at all, it's Grantaire.

He's laughing and has a beer in one hand and Jehan is right on his heels, anxiously peering around him at the congregated Greeks. Grantaire stops and the poet nearly runs into him, and he grins at Enjolras as he says, "Hello once more, fearless Apollo."

Nobody calls each other their old names except for Grantaire, who clings to it because he remembers back when he first fell in love with the blonde, when he'd been young and violent and so full of fire he'd burned. He's always been willing to do anything for his revolutions but when he was called Apollo he ushered in change with blood.

Enjolras, of course, dislikes being called Apollo, and frowns even as he pushes his chair back and stands. There's a glint of green paint at Grantaire's temple that clings stubbornly to a few of his dark curls. "Grantaire," he responds in kind, and then looks past him at Jehan with a raised brow. Jehan blushes and sidles out from behind him, taking the seat next to Courfeyrac.

"You've certainly stayed away for long enough," he says dryly, and Grantaire shrugs.

"Been busy," is his only response, vague enough that it irritates Enjolras (as he expected it would). He sits down at the last empty chair, on the opposite end of the table from the sun god, and stretches out in such a way that he looks almost boneless. Bahorel leans over and slaps him on the shoulder, grins when he says, "Nice to see you again, Grantaire," and it is as if a spell has been broken; all the Amis get up in turn to welcome him back, whether with exuberant hugs (Courfeyrac, who had doubted even ten minutes ago that Grantaire would show at all) or by giving him a carton of cigarettes (Feuilly, he thinks, is a godsend).

Enjolras returns to his seat, still frowning, and Combeferre leans in to say quietly, "He looks good." Enjolras nods and can agree; Grantaire's cheeks are flushed with health instead of booze, and the scar he'd worn raggedly across his left cheek has faded to the palest of lines. He looks much better now than he had three months ago, the last time him and Enjolras had actually talked.

He calls the meeting to order because he won't allow Grantaire to stall them again, and explains what revolution he wants to focus on now. The Egyptian rebellion officially ended two years ago but that hasn't stopped the government from continuing to do what they want (albeit more secretly). He demands justice and Grantaire watches him, not surprised to feel the thrum of energy in the room, not surprised of the surge of faith within his own gut. Grantaire, who believes in nothing but his next bottle, believes dangerously in Enjolras. He's quiet this entire meeting and he notices Enjolras looks at him once or twice, clearly prepared from some sort of sardonic commentary but Grantaire offers none and eventually Apollo forgets about it ( _him_ , he corrects darkly). He drinks the two cups of coffee handed to him and watches his friends and thinks about mortal revolutions.

When they've brought the argument to a close Enjolras is the first to disappear, Courfeyrac at his side; they have things to do and a schedule has been hammered out, each of them playing their parts (Grantaire gets no responsibilities and nobody asks him to accept some). Grantaire watches him go and his fingers itch for a pen.

"Grantaire." He looks up at his name, a kneejerk reaction, and finds Joly standing in front of him, wearing an easy smile. He's the youngest of their group, Apollo's son from an ancient princess (and Grantaire remembers that well, how drunken he'd spent those years, how much he'd hated the sight of Joly because it reminded him of her), but Joly is impossible not to like, and he's forgiven him for his father.

He grunts in reply and wishes he had some whiskey and a sketchpad, and Joly tilts his head. "You look much better." No one is willing to say it aloud but him, and Grantaire is not surprised; as Asclepius, Joly has the right to scrutinize the health of others. He is, after all, the only reason humans know how to fix each other at all.

"Thanks," he says with the twist of a self-deprecating smile and Joly's smile loses some of its wattage. But he's a doctor first and foremost and he's patched Grantaire up often enough that he doesn't shy from his sharp tongue. Instead he folds his arms across his chest and watches him, his quick dark eyes taking in every inch. When he nods, he seems satisfied. "You shouldn't partake in so much of the humans' alcohols," he remarks, and Grantaire snorts. "It's not too healthy for our kind."

"And what are the negative effects, pray tell?" He snaps, because he didn't get to fight with Enjolras and he's angry and he hates that Apollo barely even looked at him. Shouldn't seeing some scandalous painting make him more liable to bite at Grantaire himself? Joly frowns and he stands. "We're immortal, Joly. We're gods. I think that entitles me to drink whatever I'd like."

But even gods can die, and Joly himself is intimately familiar with such an idea, when Zeus had struck him down for bringing dead souls back to life. Hades had complained about the thievery and their king had killed him without a second thought to placate his brother. Enjolras had not swallowed that pill happily and had bucked against their father as he hadn't before, sullen and irritable, his golden light the type that consumed. It hadn't taken long for Zeus to resurrect Asclepius into a god, and he'd joined their ranks on Olympus.

Being reminded of such a thing makes the healing god frown and Grantaire regrets bringing it up; but then he turns on a heel and marches to the door, cuts a trail through the grand halls of Olympus and straight to his room. He's unaware of this, but Joly sighs when he leaves and turns to Jehan, who has drawn one knee to his chest and is frowning after Grantaire.

"Courfeyrac said that Grantaire was worried Enjolras had seen a lewd painting," he says, and Joly is about to ask of what when Eponine laughs so hard her face reddens.

"Of Enjolras?" She asks, having wandered in a few minutes after her brother had left. She'd just missed Grantaire, who had given her a distracted nod as he passed because even in his blackest of moods he is never rude to her. She has a special place at Enjolras' side, being his twin sister ('twin' is a misleading term; they'd each twisted their corporeal forms into what they liked and she'd ended up small and dark and him tall and dazzling) and she would often use this soft spot to weasel in Grantaire. She likes the alcoholic, and he lets her party with him and his Maenads whenever she likes.

Jehan nods and rubs the knee of his floral skinny jeans. "I think he wanted Enjolras to say something," he admits, and Eponine finds this particularly interesting. She sits down beside him with the grace of a deer, folding her long legs beneath the chair. "Like maybe if he's presented with enough evidence he can't pretend anymore."

No one can fathom how Enjolras _still_ hasn't noticed Grantaire's feelings toward him; it would be impressive if it wasn't so sad. Enjolras is a natural leader and he simply expects to find followers, has since he was but a toddler. To him, Grantaire is no different.

From across the table Bahorel picks at his fingernails with a blade and says, "Enjolras is probably just waiting for the right time." They can't help but agree; Apollo rushes nothing.

"How long is Grantaire staying this time?" Feuilly asks, and Jehan shrugs.

"I don't think he knows himself," he answers, which is more accurate than any of them know.

+++++

Grantaire is in his room, and he's pushed all the things off his bedside table to use it as a palette. He chooses the brightest colors because he knows what he wants to paint and he forgoes pretending entirely; he's not drunk enough for this shit.

He uses a fine crimson for the shadows that bleeds into the fair peach of Enjolras' skin, sculpts the nose with a few dashes of red to define the edge. Gold lightens his far cheek and spreads warmth that crafts his soft blonde hair, the curls pushed inelegantly back, casual but somehow statuesque.

"I hate you," he says dispassionately to the canvas, and delicately captures the shape of his intense eyes and that impossible blue of his irises. He darkens his eyelashes with a few thin lines of goldenrod and glares at the product, uses a few more caresses of red to make his eyes even clearer. They're piercing now, and look almost indignant. "A lot," he says on second thought, and steps back, slides the brush behind one ear without thinking.

The portrait is an elegant one, composed on a canvas that is only two foot by two, and its small enough that he doesn't feel like a complete asshole when he sits down on a chair opposite it and thinks wistfully of watching the thing burn. He's never gone out of his way to paint Enjolras before, not even when he was lovestruck and half-sick thanks to it, and can only remember once before trying--he'd been so drunk that its hazy even now, and he thinks that he never finished it anyway.

He rubs at his cheek with the back of his hand and ignites a flare of yellow on his face, conjuring a short bottle of vodka to his palm. He throws a drink back and nearly chokes when he hears from his door a slow, "...is that _me_?"

 _Of course_ , he thinks as he struggles not to act too panicked and twists around in his chair. Of course Enjolras would choose now to come check up on him, while he's wet with paint and unrequited love and alcohol.

"Fuck," is all he can manage to say.

**Author's Note:**

> aha this came sooner than expected (I'm supposed to be studying for Latin and I got a little inspired), but here you are, second in the series!
> 
> the post's name, Dum Spiro Spero, is Latin for "while I breathe I hope". I thought it was suiting
> 
> and that's it this time, don't forget to leave kudos or comments if you'd like and I still love all of you guys


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